The Guilt Beneath Ta n i s Ka l Ka n The GuilT BeneaTh a Di Deacon MysTery Tanis Kalkan Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The Guilt Beneath The Guilt Beneath Tanis Kalkan A DI Deacon Mystery Tanis Kalkan An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The Guilt Beneath T he rain had come , as it always did in Har- rowfield, steady and relentless, like the town’s residents—neither particularly friendly nor outwardly unfriendly, just resolutely predictable. The streets were slick, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and stale gossip. It was, by all accounts, a place where nothing of much consequence ever seemed to happen. That is, until Miss Elizabeth Wensley was found dead. DI Deacon stood in her study, the room a cluttered shrine to a life spent teaching young minds. Book- shelves lined every wall, each shelf bending under the weight of volumes that had once been treasured and now sat forgotten. The warm yellow light from the desk lamp flickered, casting long shadows over the worn-out furniture. Tanis Kalkan And then there was her, Miss Wensley, slumped in her high-backed armchair, eyes open, staring blank- ly ahead as if waiting for something. She’d been be- loved by the townsfolk for years. In fact, if anyone had asked, they’d have said Elizabeth Wensley was as integral to the town as the postman or the church bell. But now she was dead, and the only thing in the room that mattered was the small scrap of paper clenched tightly in her hand. It was all very tidy, almost too tidy. The kind of thing that suggested a well-thought-out arrange- ment, something surgical. But Deacon knew better than to trust appearances. “Detective,” said Sarah Hughes, the constable, her voice low and hesitant, as she peered over his shoul- der. “What do we think? Natural causes? Or...” “Natural causes?” Deacon echoed, squinting at the body, his mind already several steps ahead. “A wom- an in her mid-fifties, healthy as a horse, right. Natu- ral causes, my foot.” He stepped closer, his leather shoes creaking against the wooden floor, his eyes scanning the room with methodical precision. Every detail, every slight imperfection, was noted. A teacup half-full of cold The Guilt Beneath tea sat on the table next to a half-finished crossword. On the desk, a framed photograph of a much young- er Miss Wensley with a group of children, students, no doubt, smiled back at him. But it was the paper that caught his attention. The note, now unfolded, lay in Miss Wensley’s stiffened fingers, a scruffy little thing that had been crumpled as if someone had been desperate to hide it. He lifted it gingerly, turning it over in his hands as Sarah watched him closely. There were only a few words, and they were barely legible. The ink was smudged, the handwriting al- most illegible, but Deacon could make out enough to know it wasn’t a coincidence. “The past never dies; it just wears a new face. Ask the Willows.” “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath. “What the hell does that mean?” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “The Willows? Is that a clue or some sort of sick joke?” Deacon shot her a glance, already weighing the possibilities. “Doesn’t feel like a joke to me.” He stared at the note, his mind racing. There was a history here, Tanis Kalkan something old and tangled. Something people didn’t want to be remembered. But the Willows? That name carried weight in this town. The Willows were un- touchable, powerful, influential, a family that ruled Harrowfield with a kind of quiet authority that most townsfolk feared to even question. “I’ll tell you what it means,” Deacon continued, his voice grim, “It means someone’s trying to send a message. And this,” he waved the note, “isn’t just some half-baked nonsense. This is a warning. I don’t know to whom, but I’m certain of one thing.” “And what’s that?” Sarah asked her tone sceptical. “This isn’t the first time someone’s been killed be- cause of the Willows,” Deacon said, his eyes narrow- ing as he placed the note carefully on the desk. “And I’m willing to bet it won’t be the last.” He glanced around the room again, noting the little things, how the window was slightly ajar, the books on the shelf in disarray, the odd absence of dust, as if someone had been in recently to tidy up. His gaze re- turned to the body, the glassy stare of Miss Wensley, whose death seemed all too purposeful in its quiet execution. The Guilt Beneath A sound from the hallway broke his reverie. He turned, just as the door to the study creaked open. A short, balding man in a thick overcoat entered, his eyes darting nervously from Deacon to the body. “Detective Deacon,” the man said, his voice high- pitched and trembling. “I... I’m the one who found her.” “Mr. Hargrove?” Deacon asked, recognizing the school janitor. “What exactly did you find, and when?” Hargrove shuffled into the room, clearly ill at ease, his hands twisting the brim of his hat in a nervous gesture. “I was just, just tidying up, you know? I al- ways check on Miss Wensley in the mornings, make sure she’s alright. She’s been... well, a bit strange late- ly, you know? But when I came in today...” “Mr. Hargrove, spare us the dramatics,” Deacon said, holding up his hand. “You found her dead. How?” Hargrove shifted uncomfortably. “She was just sitting there... like that. I didn’t know what to do. I thought... I thought she was just napping. But then... I saw the blood.” Tanis Kalkan “Blood?” Deacon raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t mention blood.” Hargrove flinched, looking as though he wished he could disappear into the wooden floorboards. “Not a lot. Just... just a little. But it wasn’t natural. I swear, Detective. It wasn’t natural.” Deacon exchanged a glance with Sarah. Blood? That changed everything. There was no sign of any struggle, but something was very wrong here. “Tell me,” Deacon said, narrowing his eyes, “Did Miss Wensley have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to harm her?” The janitor swallowed. “Well... there’s the Willows, of course. You don’t live in Harrowfield long and not know about them.” Deacon’s jaw tightened. The Willows. Again. He glanced back at the note. “Ask the Willows,” it read. The past was wearing a new face, indeed. And it was going to take more than a cryptic note to put the pieces together. The Guilt Beneath * * * * * Deacon stood there, staring at the note, his gut tell- ing him what his mind had yet to fully grasp. This wasn’t just a murder. This was the beginning of something much, much worse. And he was about to get caught right in the middle of it. “Sarah,” he said, without taking his eyes off the note, “get me everything you can on the Willows. Now.” “Right away, sir,” she replied, but she hesitated be- fore turning to leave. “And, uh, what do you think? Is it one of them?” Deacon didn’t look up, but his voice was steady. “It always is.” Tanis Kalkan I. The fog hung low over Harrowfield, thick and op- pressive, as if the town itself were trapped beneath a blanket that muffled both sound and reason. The early morning haze hadn’t quite lifted by the time DI Deacon arrived at Harrowfield Secondary School, and the muted greys of the town seeped into the very brickwork of the institution. It was a place of order, predictability, and now, of course, suspicion. All the things that could hide the ugliness of a town like this, if one cared to look closely. He didn’t. Deacon had seen enough. He knew Harrowfield’s secrets, had long suspected them, but this was differ- ent. Miss Elizabeth Wensley was dead, and if there was one thing he understood, it was that dead people didn’t just disappear from well-kept towns. Especial- ly not when they had left a message behind. The Guilt Beneath He crossed the threshold of the school, passing through the main entrance, where the faint smell of disinfectant mixed with the cloying scent of old text- books. There was something about it all, the air of stale lessons and freshly scrubbed floors, that made him itch. “Morning, Detective.” It was Sarah Hughes, the local constable, her face drawn but sharp with the kind of professional po- liteness that came with small-town law enforcement. She was young, eager, and still clinging to the idea that justice in Harrowfield could be neatly wrapped up in a bow. “Morning, Sarah,” Deacon muttered, barely look- ing at her as he took in the surroundings. The school was quiet, too quiet for a normal Monday morning. “We’ve got the staff and students gathered in the assembly hall,” Sarah continued, leading him past the hallways of framed awards and certificates, past classrooms with their doors slightly ajar. “Most of the teachers are still in shock, but a few of the kids were... well, they were more concerned with who found her first.” Tanis Kalkan Deacon raised an eyebrow. “Kids? Concerned with who found her first?” “Well, it’s Harrowfield. Everyone’s concerned with who found what first. And I’m guessing they all know she was a bit of a favourite.” Deacon nodded absently. Miss Wensley had been a well-liked teacher, and that was precisely why her death was unsettling. Not many in the town would want to see her gone—unless, of course, she had known too much. They entered the assembly hall, which had a smell of its own: the musty odour of poorly ventilated rooms and the slight tang of panic. A group of stu- dents huddled together near the back, whispering and glancing over their shoulders at the uniformed officers posted around the room. The faculty was on the other side, their faces tight with unspoken words. “Alright,” Deacon said, his voice cutting through the nervous chatter. “Let’s get to it. Who’s the first volunteer for talking?” A boy, no older than sixteen, raised his hand, his nervous energy palpable. He had a shock of unruly hair and a face that seemed perpetually caught in the middle of a confession. The Guilt Beneath “I... uh... I found her, sir,” the boy stammered. Deacon nodded, pointing to the chair across from him. “Sit down. Tell me everything.” The boy shuffled over, sitting with his legs crossed at the ankles, his hands jittering in his lap. “It was weird, sir. I’ve known Miss Wensley all my life, you know? My brother had her a few years ago. Everyone loves her. But this morning...” “Start from the beginning, and try not to sound like you’re rehearsing a bad play,” Deacon interrupt- ed, leaning forward. The boy swallowed, clearly flustered. “Right, sorry. Uh, Miss Wensley was... well, she was acting strange, you know? Like, not herself. She’d been, um, staring out the window for ages. That’s not like her. She’d just sit there and, I don’t know, look out at nothing.” Deacon nodded, taking notes. “What’s ‘strange’ for her? Come on, we need details.” “I don’t know,” the boy replied, shifting in his seat. “She wasn’t talking to anyone. Just kind of... in her own head. And when I knocked on her door to see if she was alright, she didn’t answer. I tried again, and still nothing. That’s when I went in.” Tanis Kalkan “And you found her dead?” Deacon asked his voice sharp. “Well, not exactly, sir. She was... there, in her chair. Eyes open, like she was just... resting. I thought she was asleep. But when I looked closer, there was some- thing off about her face. It was, well, kind of... frozen, you know?” Deacon’s brow furrowed. “Frozen? Like she was...?” “Like someone had... well, done something to her.” Deacon leaned back, absorbing the information. No signs of struggle. No obvious cause of death. But the look on the boy’s face was one of genuine concern. Either he was an excellent actor or he had stumbled upon something unpleasant. “Did you touch anything?” The boy blinked, almost insulted. “No, sir. I’m not stupid.” “Good,” Deacon muttered, standing up. “Now, I want you to stay put. I’ll need to talk to a few more people. And this,” he added, nodding to the group, “isn’t over.” The Guilt Beneath As he made his way through the room, Deacon’s eyes caught a familiar face, the head of the English department, Mr. Thomas Graves. He was standing by the window, rubbing his temple with one hand as he chatted quietly with a colleague. Deacon approached him, his footsteps deliberate. “Mr. Graves,” he said, offering a brief nod. “Mind if I have a word?” Graves looked up, startled, but then recognized the detective and stiffened. “Of course, Detective Dea- con. Whatever you need.” Deacon studied him for a moment before asking, “You were Miss Wensley’s colleague for how long?” “Thirty years,” Graves replied quickly. “We worked together since I arrived. She was... well, she was one of the best teachers here.” Deacon noted the tightness in the man’s voice. “Any idea what happened to her? Any enemies? Anything strange lately?” “Enemies? No. Elizabeth had no enemies. She... she was well-liked, you know?” Graves hesitated. “But she did say something odd a few days ago. She Tanis Kalkan mentioned feeling like the walls were closing in on her. Like there was something watching her. She was just—well, tired, I thought. It’s been a long year for everyone.” Deacon raised an eyebrow. “Tired, huh? Funny how that works, when you’re on the edge of some- thing, isn’t it?” Graves stared at him, unsure if he was meant to respond. Before he could, Deacon turned, his gaze land- ing on the photograph hanging on the wall beside the principal’s office door. A familiar image, a much younger Miss Wensley, standing beside a stern-look- ing man. Lord Edward Willow. Deacon’s gut tightened, his suspicion deepening. The Willows again. They were everywhere, it seemed. Holding power over everything. “Mr. Graves,” Deacon said, breaking his trance. “I’ll need the rest of her lesson plans. And, uh, any- thing you have on the Willows. If Miss Wensley had contact with them, I need to know.” Graves blinked, confusion clouding his features. “The Willows? What does that have to do with this?” The Guilt Beneath Deacon’s gaze never wavered. “A lot more than you think.” * * * * * Deacon stepped out of the school into the crisp morning air, the fog having finally begun to lift. But the feeling of weight was still there, pressing down on him. He didn’t need to know all the answers—not yet. But the more he thought about it, the more he was sure of one thing: Miss Wensley hadn’t just died. She’d been silenced. And someone, somewhere, was doing everything they could to make sure no one asked the right ques- tions. He could feel it in his bones. “Ask the Willows,” the note had said. And ask them, he would. But the real question was: Would they answer? Tanis Kalkan II. The Willows’ estate sat in a hollow of the country- side, a sprawling manor surrounded by dense woods, its stone walls covered in ivy like the wrinkles of a man trying to hide his age. The tall iron gates creaked in protest as Deacon’s car pulled up, the gravel under the tires crunching like an unwelcome guest at a qui- et party. DI Deacon was no stranger to wealth; he’d seen enough of it in his time, the kind that hung in the air like perfume, masked in the subtleties of power and control. But Harrowfield was different. The Willows were something else entirely. He stood outside the grand doors for a moment, adjusting his coat as if preparing himself for whatev- er came next. A servant let him in with the usual po- liteness reserved for official visitors, but there was a stiffness in her smile, as though she were worried his